


Warmth

by Shyspyder



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Beric's first resurrection, M/M, Resurrection, Surprise Kissing, sort of character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shyspyder/pseuds/Shyspyder
Summary: Beric Dondarrion's first death at the battle of Mummer’s Fort, and Thoros's reaction. (AKA, a short Beric/Thoros fic that literally nobody asked for but was written anyway)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written between classes, so it's not edited or anything. There is a severe lack of Beric Dondarrion/Thoros of Myr, so I made this. I only watched the show and read the first book, so this is based on show-only stuff and what I read on the wiki page. Reviews are super cool, but again I wrote this between classes so I don't expect much :) Thanks!!!

Warmth

Thoros of Myr didn’t have the time to set his mighty sword ablaze, as was his usual way. Clegane and his men had ambushed the party of unsuspecting men, catching them just outside Mummer’s Fort. Of course, when the fighting began, the first thing that Thoros’s mind jumped to his commander.

He cut down Clegane’s men, one after another. When he reached the final soldier within nearest proximity, blood sprayed across his face, blending in with the dark red fabrics of his robes. He looked up, heart in his throat as he scanned the area for his commander. Beric was a few yards ahead, cutting down the approaching men. He was a good fighter. One of the best that Thoros had ever seen. But he wasn’t willing to take any chances. Not with Beric. He leaped over a dead soldier – one of their own – and slashed down a man who had his spear aimed inches away from Beric’s neck. Beric whipped around, grey eyes wide with surprise and relief at the sight of the red priest. Suddenly, his gaze shifted to the side.

“Thoros! Behind you!” He rasped. Thoros was able to turn around just quick enough to catch the soldier behind him, driving his ash-covered sword into his stomach.

“Thank the Gods…” Beric sighed. He reached for his sword, which had been thrown into the dirt throughout the chaos.

“Beric, we must retreat. More soldiers are surely on their way, and when they reach us, we’ll never make it out alive,” Thoros said urgently. Beric hesitated for a second, looking into the eyes of his friend. They were pleading. Something that he rarely saw in Thoros. Pleading for Beric to retreat. To survive. Of course, he didn’t wish to retreat. He was a loyal supporter of King Robert. He was twice the man Aerys was, and if he trusted Ned Stark to give him orders, then he would follow those orders until he reached the grave. But Thoros was right, it’s hard for a man to follow orders when you are dead.

“Come on,” he said to his friend. He reached his arm out, brushing Thoros’s arm lightly. The priest looked surprised for a moment, before giving his commander a small smile. They were just about to leave the clearing, when a chorus of harsh cries rang out behind them. They whipped around in surprise. Clegane’s soldiers ran in through the clearing. Fresh soldiers. Beric’s men hardly stood a chance, but they had little choice but to meet in battle once more. Each man was fighting with all the strength they could muster. Thoros lifted his sword, meaning to fight with them, but he felt a stab of pain in his side. One of Celgene’s men thrust a dagger into his side. Not a fatal blow, but enough to stop his fight. Thoros grimaced in pain and fell to his knees, waiting for the soldier to end it all. But suddenly, it was the solder who fell to the ground. Beric stood above him, worry in his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Beric said, the concern clear in his voice. Thoros smiled and reached for his hand, standing up with shaky legs.

“That’s twice now, isn’t it?” He said jokingly. Beric gave him a small smile, but continued to watch his friend with concern. When they looked up, they saw Beric’s men continuing to cut down the incoming soldiers. Perhaps they wouldn’t go down so easily after all.

Then suddenly, Thoros saw him. He didn’t know Ser Gregor well, but he had seen the man for himself once or twice in his time at the Red Keep. He was twice the size of any man he had ever seen, and three times as cruel. But Beric, bless his soul, didn’t give in easily. His commander held up his spear, scowling in fury. Thoros reached for his arm. He knew the likely outcome. He would rather be branded a coward then see Beric dead before him.

But Beric was stubborn, and the fight didn’t last long. With a loud cry, Gregor Clegane thrust a lance into Beric’s chest. The commander’s eyes wide in pain in shock. Thoros couldn’t speak. He just watched as his friend stumbled for a second, before meeting Thoros’s eyes for the briefest of seconds. Thoros felt unshed tears build in his eyes. With every gasp Beric took, Thoros felt pain shutter through his thin frame. He would have taken a thousand lances then watch. And yet he couldn't look away. He opened his mouth, meaning to let out a loud cry, but no sound came out. He just watched as his friend knelt to the ground, and with one final gasp, collapse into the dirt.

He tried to crawl towards his dying – no – injured friend, but it became more and more difficult to move. Once he finally reached him, he put his hand on his chest, desperate for a gasp, a breath…anything. There was a pulse. It was small, but Thoros didn’t care. It was something. Beric’s eyes were half closes, desperately searching, and filled with relief when he saw his friend.

“Thoros…” he whispered. His eyes – his light grey eyes – the ones that Thoros thought about so often, blinking shut. And with them, last shred of life leaving his body. Thoros felt paralyzed. The reality around him was becoming altered. _No, not him,_ he thought desperately. _Please…_ He barely noticed the soldiers around them scattering, unsure of the victor. Clegane was gone, marching back to Mummer’s Fort. But Thoros didn’t care about any of that. All that mattered was the man in his arms. And all that Thoros knew was that this man was dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. He brushed the hair back from his forehead, tears dripping down his cheek and clearing little circles from the blood on Beric’s face. He sobbed into his chest. Beneath the loud buzzing in his head, he thought of his days in the Myrish Temple, reciting prayers just at the right times, just right enough to be spared the fate of many other small boys. Although he was made a red priest, he held little belief for the Lord of Light…what sort of God would let Beric die? _My commander, my friend, my…_ he sobbed again.

He didn’t know what else to do. Beric was gone, and the battle was over. He pressed his lips to Beric’s ever so slightly, struggling not to cringe in grief when he felt how cold they were. _If only I did this more when we were alive,_ he thought. _Beric should never be this cold._ He pressed his forehead to Beric’s, and whispered a few prayers. Prayers he thought long forgotten.

Once he had finished, he put his hand back on Beric’s chest, careful to avoid the large, gaping stab wound. It was as if it was taunting him. A reminder of what he had lost. And then, he felt the air change around him. He looked up, but there was nobody there. Just him and Beric, with a few dead soldiers scattered about. But then he felt it. Thoros froze in disbelief, not wanting to give himself even the smallest thread of hope. But there it was again. A small thud. Barely there at all at first, but it began to grow. Faster and faster, until it nearly matched the pace of his own. Beric gasped slightly, and his eyes slowly cracked back open.

“Beric?” Thoros leaned in. Beric looked at his friend, eyes wide in fear and confusion.

“Wh…What –” But Thoros didn’t give him a chance to speak. He closed the small gap between them, pressing his lips back onto Beric’s. His stomach floored at the feel of his lips – his _warm_ lips. Just as he was meant to be. Warm. Alive. In the back of his mind, he felt his commander relax into his touch, his fingers brushing against the soft hairs on the back of his neck. It was Thoros who broke this kiss, his forehead leaning against Beric’s, staring into his grey – if slightly confused – eyes. He would stare into those eyes for hours if he could. Thoros let out a small laugh and leaned in again for another kiss. He didn’t know what happened. Was Beric alive this whole time? No. Of course not. He knew what it was. It was the Lord of Light. It was always the Lord of Light. But right now, he cared little for why or how. All he cared about was the warmth in Beric’s lips.


End file.
